i cannot tell a lie
by hyacinthian
Summary: It's an accident. Really. MarkLeslie.


It's an accident. That's what he tells himself. Granted, he's pretty drunk right now.

His knuckles brush hers first, but it wasn't on purpose, just that he's swaying on his feet a little bit and he uses his hands when he talks and she's standing next to him with a glass of wine, pretending to listen. He's not sure – her eyes are pretty glazed too, so she could be smashed. He notices that she tenses up with the brief contact, though.

The second time they bump into each other, he's coming out of the bathroom and she's heading towards it. It's not so much a bump as it is a full-on collision. The conference room is full of the politicians and city workers of Pawnee getting toasted to celebrate President's Day or something, and he thinks in the spirit of George Washington or whoever's birthday it is, he should help her up. He reaches for her hand as she snorts and giggles uncontrollably on the floor and pulls her up to her feet. "You okay?" he asks.

She looks into his eyes, blinking slowly. "I have to pee."

He shrugs and lets go. "Go for it."

She brushes against him when he's standing by the bar, waiting as the bartender tries to gauge whether giving him another drink is a good idea or a bad one. Her hip bumps into his and he slides his hand onto the small of her back like it's something he's always done. This is a bad idea, and even he knows that beneath the cloudiness of alcohol – he knows Leslie likes him, if only because Tom tells him every chance he gets. ("It's like she draws these hearts on her notebooks and letterheads and stuff like that, man. And they've got your name in them.") She smiles at him then, bright and genuine, and he kind of forgets that this is a bad idea. The bartender hands him his whiskey. He tips his head at her in toast before tilting his head back, letting it slide down his throat. "Ah," he says, with exaggerated flourish. She giggles. "What do you want?"

She shakes her head. "No, Mark."

"Ah, come on, Leslie. President's Day comes once a year. I'll buy you a drink, what do you want?"

She licks her lips. She stammers for a bit. "A, uh, a mojito."

He raises his eyebrows but orders it for her anyway. The condensation on the glass rolls down to meet her fingertips.

She's sitting at his table later that night, talking about her political aspirations, and he doesn't really know what to say. "I don't know how you have so much faith in the system, Leslie."

She blinks. "What do you mean?"

He laughs as he nurses a beer. "I mean, politicians aren't like Captain America. And you just seem to think they're always going to do the right thing."

She places her hand on top of his. "If we don't believe in it, the system's never going to change."

"I…" he sighs. "Kind of wish I had your optimism." She takes that as a victory.

Once Tom starts awkwardly trying to dance with every girl under thirty in there, they decide to move out into the hallway. She's talking about her plans for office, how she's going to revamp the Parks and Recreation department and transform it into a governmental light saber and defeat the Darth Vaders that are her opponents. He has to laugh at the analogy. She's pretty into it though, throwing her hands around to further argue her point, leaning into his space.

The next thing he knows, he's kissing her. Hand in her hair, full-on tongue kissing Leslie Knope. Which is the biggest mistake of the night. But by this point, he doesn't really care. She tastes sweet from the strawberry champagne she's just had, and she's kissing him back, and it just feels so good. She pushes up against him, hips knocking against his awkwardly, and he groans. When he pulls away to kiss her neck, she's panting.

"Mark, Mark, we shouldn't—" And then his hand is snaking up her shirt, rubbing her through her bra, and she has her eyes shut, groaning and arching into him. Breathless, she says, "Is my place okay?"

She drives them because he's not entirely sure he could pass a breathalyzer and he doesn't know where she lives. When they get through the door of her apartment, his hands are all over her again, sliding up her back as he kisses her, tearing open her blouse. She frowns for a second. "Did I leave my blazer at the—"

She grows silent as his mouth, hot and wet, slides over her bare skin. He can only hear the sound of her ragged breathing. She pulls off his shirt before grabbing his hand and leading him towards her bedroom. She makes these whimpering noises as his mouth glides over her breast, as his knuckle accidentally brushes against her as he's pulling her pants and underwear off. She's so wet, he thinks, as he strokes her, watching as her head falls back, mouth open, hips undulating against him.

"Leslie."

She looks up at him, eyes dark, before reaching for him completely, pushing him onto his back. He helps her get his pants off, and then, she slides the condom on him before she follows. He never thought Leslie would be the kind of woman to like being on top, but he can't say he minds the surprise. She starts off slow, lips parted and eyes closed as she moves, but when he thrusts his hips up against her, she speeds up as his hand curls around her hip. And when she leans down, breasts brushing against his chest, he feels her hot breath against him as she slams against him. She clenches around him with a gasp then, and he clenches his teeth when he spasms against her.

She slides off of him, rolling to lie on her stomach, eyes fluttering. He tosses the condom in the trash can before he starts picking up his clothes. She's sleeping by the time he's dressed. He brushes a kiss on her cheek before he leaves.


End file.
